


Sand of Sorrows

by VerityGrahams



Series: The Houses Competition - Year Six - Gryffindor [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Book 4: Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire, Curse Breaking, Egypt, Gen, Goblins, Rise of Voldemort, Sandstorm - Freeform, Study of Ancient Runes (Harry Potter), The Houses Competition
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-07
Updated: 2020-05-07
Packaged: 2021-03-03 04:49:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24059257
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VerityGrahams/pseuds/VerityGrahams
Summary: According to Harfang, Dust Storms foretell sorrow and hardship. Bill thinks that's ridiculous, not that he plans on getting stuck in the sand storm. Will the unravelling events change his mind?
Relationships: Goblin & Bill Weasley
Series: The Houses Competition - Year Six - Gryffindor [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1735684
Kudos: 4





	Sand of Sorrows

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: I do not own Harry Potter
> 
> Written for The Houses Competition
> 
> House: Gryffindor
> 
> Position: Potions
> 
> Category: Drabble
> 
> Prompt: [Weather] Dust Storm
> 
> Dust storms symbolises unexpected sorrow and hardships
> 
> Wordcount: 995
> 
> Thanks to WhiteTiger91 (Tiggs) for beta

Sands of Sorrow

The apartment was small, bright, and cool. There was a single bed inside with thin sheets, and the person lying upon it was topless. His pale skin was littered with copper freckles, his face covered by auburn locks that glimmered in the Egyptian sun.

A continual tapping on the glass of Bill's window finally woke him. An owl flew in, dropped off a letter, and flew back out. Bill glanced at the clock with bleary eyes, noticed the time, and jumped out of bed. He was supposed to be at work at nine; according to his clock, he had ten minutes to get to the office.

"Thank Merlin for Apparation."

He stuffed the letter from his mum into his back pocket and pulled on a shirt. Pulling his hair into a ponytail, he Disapparated with a 'pop.'

* * *

Bill arrived only ten minutes late, which was good, considering. He'd been sent to one of the tombs further out in the desert; with a dust storm on the way, he assumed it was a punishment. Their task was breaking a powerful curse that'd sealed a secret compartment. It was Bill's job to get Gringotts access to the vault's treasure.

Bill poured over the strange hieroglyphs, yet by the end of the day, he'd only translated a paragraph.

"Do you have any information about the kind of curse?" asked Harfang, the goblin he worked with.

"No, but I have a better idea of what's inside. I've written up the rest of the first panel; if the dust storm doesn't pass, I can continue from the office."

"Well, what is it?" Harfang asked with a glint in his eye. He was rubbing his hands together, making the goblin look greedier than ever.

Bill knew it wasn't about monetary value. They'd been longing to find a very particular goblin treasure for some time. It was about pride, their heritage—something that was often taken by wizardkind.

"I think you're right. This hieroglyph here," Bill pointed out a small, peculiar symbol, "has popped up a few times, and it means 'true silver'. I have done a lot of background research, and that is the term goblins use to describe the treasures that you seek. _The Orbeti hiriwa_."

Harfang held the parchment delicately in his hands. "I had thought this search was all for nought." His long boney fingers caressed the hieroglyph.

"Why? I wouldn't want you to think my translation skills were useless, though, I'm more fluent in Gobbledegook."

"I meant with the sandstorm. When a dust storm strikes, those trapped are sure to experience unexpected hardships and sorrow."

"We aren't stuck in it, and I don't plan to be."

"Not stuck?" His smile only widened, looking more cruel than it had before. "I do believe we are."

"What? If the storm's getting worse, the protocol is to leave the tomb, not continue working! Why didn't you say anything?" Bill ran to the exit of the tomb only to find an invisible barrier in place, and outside, a violent storm filled with sand.

The closer he got, the louder the wind's roar was. There were turrets of the Sahara Desert spiralling through the dunes. A violent wave of sand crashed into the barrier, which was so clear that Bill flinched, expecting to be consumed.

"Great! We're stuck here till it passes and that could be… what?"

"Up to five days." Harfang seemed disinterested.

"Great. Just great. Living in a cursed tomb for five days!"

Bill stormed from the exit and the swirling cyclones of sand. He went to the small chamber where he'd left his belongings and sunk to the floor. He pulled out what was left of his lunch—a stale corned beef sandwich—and ate his meagre dinner.

His contemplation led him to giving a little leeway to Harfang; he knew the goblins' history and how wizards had stripped them of their heritage. If it were him, would he be so narrow-minded about finding just a shred of the history for himself and his people?

It was only when he'd calmed down and accepted his fate that he picked up the letter he'd received that morning. It was unusually thick for a letter from his mum. Then, of course, he remembered the Triwizard Tournament.

"I'll bet they're all together," he said to himself. "If anyone can find a way into a deadly tournament, it's Fred and George."

He ripped open the packaging—and everything changed.

The first thing that fell out of the envelope was a newspaper clipping. In it was a picture of Albus Dumbledore, closing the gates of Hogwarts. His heart began to race; what if something had happened? What if Ron and his friends had yet another near-death experience?

The Headline said: ' **Dumbledore: Daft or Dangerous'.**

"No!" Bill continued reading, but the article just made him angrier. "How dare she! The dirty, little, lying sneak." Soon, he was shouting at the offending newspaper, using language that he knew his mother wouldn't approve of.

He must've caught Harfang's attention, because he strode into the office, looking furious.

"Stop your whining, _wizard!_ I didn't do it on purpose; I didn't realise until the barriers were up. At that point, what was the point of stopping your work?"

Bill looked up. His anger at being trapped seemed inconsequential now. "You know what you said about the sandstorm being a sign of impending misery and doom?"

"I said it foretold sorrow and hardship. If you're this imprecise, maybe the storm is a sign that the chamber will be empty… yet again."

"No. That chamber is the least of our concerns, Harfang." Bill swallowed, unable to speak, because doing so made everything real.

He passed over the newspaper clipping.

"You take the word of Rita Skeeter and the _Daily Prophet?_ I bet Dumbledore never claimed such a thing."

"He did. My mother confirmed it." Bill's voice trembled. "This is the end of the letter: ' _Harry saw everything; he killed Cedric. Come home! You-Know-Who is back.'_ "

**Author's Note:**

> Note: For the purposes of this story, I am going by 'Movie-Canon' meaning that Bill Weasley was not with his family when Voldemort returned.


End file.
